Red Dead Redemption: Dead West
by TheHungryCoconut
Summary: By the 1930s, Walton Last has become a legend of the Wild West, a fixture of the penny dreadfuls that tell romanticized stories of the men of old. But his reputation as a gunslinger and a legend may be fantastical, but not completely unfounded. "Dead West" tells the true story of the legend that is Walton Last, a Wild West gunslinger out for blood in a tale of murder and revenge.
1. Chapter 1 - Four Men in a Saloon

_Author's Note: This is my first Fanfic, and this is the first chapter of said Fanfic, so I'd rather quite like it if you could post some honest reviews. Also note that this is the only chapter that features a bunch of old codgers in a bar, so if you're not particularly fond of this one, you may still like the later ones._

* * *

'You guys hearda Walton Last?'  
'No, who's Walton Last?'  
'Guy outta Nuevo Paraiso or some place. Old West gunslinger.'  
'I think I read about him in a penny dreadful one time'  
'Oh yeah, Walton Last!'

...

Four men sit around a table, a little worse for ware, in the crowded Blackwater Saloon. Noise fills the room, people shuffle around, and there's a general air of friendly hostility. The world is changing. Gone are the days where you need to worry about outlaws and gunfighters riding through town to shoot you and steal your possessions. Now are the days where you have taxes and the flu to worry about, pats to the thieves and shootists of old.

These men, like all of those around them. All wearing the same pretentious three-piece suits. all sporting the same facial hair, all drinking the same drinks, all conversing the same conversation. One of the four, Lester Habersham, twiddles his finger in a glass of scotch nonchalantly. He's leaned back in the chair, feigning comfort. A quiet man by nature, he seems to believe that shifting his position will somehow result in all eyes on him, like it was some sort of heresy or mortal sin.

The man next to him, Earl West, a very large and very outspoken man, especially among his company of three. He seems entirely devoted to the conversation, this boisterous and overly-excitable man making his contributions heard and known. Picture a Texan oil monger. The third man is Riley Fortisque, the eldest of the group, nearing his late-forties while the others don't look a day past their mid-thirties. His face drooping, his hands wrinkled, and jowls down his chin and neck, this man sits with a cigarette and holder dangling out of his mouth, a glass of scotch in his hand and a pompous expression on his face.

The fourth man, Lionel Shackleford, is probably the most eloquent, and most normal, of the four. He sits, disinterested, scratching at the tabletop. This man is the youngest, most well-kept and cleanest of them, with a finely trimmed goatee, a golden pocketwatch, a well-made suit and slick, combed hair pressed by his bowler hat. Lionel, Earl, Lester and Riley are doing what they do day after day after day. Sitting around, talking about nothing in particular and drinking expensive scotch, while the wife at home tends to the seventeen plus kids. This time, they appear to be deep in discussion about a character in a dime novel they read once. Funny how things work out.

'Weren't he that guy who shot Richard Wallach?'  
'Nah, that was Pat Stevens-'  
'No, it was Walton Last'  
'How'd you know if it's Walton Last?'  
'Cause I know, okay? Read it in a dime novel-'  
'Them penny dreadfuls don't tell the truth. About as accurate as a one-armed spastic, they are'.

It doesn't really matter who's talking, or when. In the to and fro of their day to day lives, all their conversations seem to blend together. Usually, one of them plays Devil's advocate, regardless of whether or not they believe what they're saying, just to carry on the conversation until the next pretentious twat comes around and has a game of billiards that they can watch. They don't take much notice of who's speaking unless something particularly interesting comes up, so neither should you.

'No, I swear, I saw him once!' Riley says, finally spicing up the talk.  
'You? You old codger? Not sure you could even remember that far back'  
'No, I saw him! I saw him, I swear' Riley continues.  
Lionel is intrigued, and not in the least bit disinterested.  
'Assuming you did see Walton Last... well, what was he like?'  
'I never saw much of him, I-'

'Ha! There you go!' Earl loudly chimes in. Lionel looks at him in annoyance.  
'Riley, go on. What about Walton Last?'  
'Walton Last, he rode into town one time in-'  
'Which town?'  
'Armadillo, I believe. Or the- it was someplace. Anyway, he's rode town on this big, black horse in 190-'  
'Walton Last never rode a black horse!'  
'Did you see him?'  
'Did you?'  
'Walton Last's horse was always white'

'In the books maybe,' Riley continues his story, 'but I saw him for real. He came into town on this big black horse, back sometime in 1905 when the Old West were dyin', and the New West were just comin' in,' Riley begins. 'This was back in the day when them Mexicans were movin' in from the south like nothin', populatin' our towns, an' more civilized folk from the North were comin' down and civilizin' us. 'Round this time, I was just fifteen or twenty, an' Blackwater was just startin' gettin' built'.

And so begins the legend of Walton Last.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Legend of Walton Last

_Author's Note: The second chapter of my first ever Fanfic, so I want y'all to review it and tell me what you think. Any and every criticism you can make, please make it, because I'm looking to improve, as everyone is. Hell, nitpick if you want, just level as much honest criticism as you can. Greatly appreciated._

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Armadillo, 1904. The streets are quieter than a graveyard. But it's midday. An eerie silence has taken over the usually-bustling town. The most civilized town in New Austin, undeniably, Armadillo is usually full of visitors riding through, people buying from the vendors of various odds and ends, and drunkards partying in the saloon. An approaching rider. The thudding and grinding of the horse's hooves against the dirt can be heard echoing all throughout the silent town, even with this approaching horseman several miles away at least.

More galloping. It soon slows to a trot. A figure comes into view, on the horizon, approaching Armadillo. He's slowed his horse to a walk now, and is stunned by the silence of the once-bustling town. He rides a bit more, his boots making a "ching" sound as his horse trudges into the village. He stops, pulling back the reigns. His horse whines. He lifts one leg over his horse, his leather pants squeaking slightly as he does it. He then, with effort, hops off the right side of his horse and lands on the ground, his knees near-buckling as he does it. He hates that part. Getting old.

He takes two steps forwards, then grabs his horse's reigns. His boots "chink" and his clothes audibly furrow as he walks. Even this, usually near-impossible to hear, rings throughout the deadly silent town. A few more steps, and he ties up his horse on the post in front of the General Store. Once done here, he looks around. Nothing. He takes off his hat and rubs the sweat off his forehead. He runs his fingers through his dirty, grimy hair, brushing it back, and then places his hat back on his head. He stands there for a moment, doing nothing more than looking, searching for some sign of life. Townsfolk've all disappeared, the man thinks to himself, worried.

He steps onto the General Store's porch, the boards creaking endlessly, and takes a few steps to the door. His boots thud. The doors creak open, and he looks inside. 'Hello?' the man calls into the General Store. Nothing. He takes another step inside. 'Hello?' he says again, even more worried now than before. 'Hey!' he calls, clearly frightened. He takes another step into the room. BOOM. A gunshot rings out, all through Armadillo and in miles in any direction. Behind the General Store counter, the man watches, stunned, as a smoking pistol recedes back into cover.

He feels something wet in his right breast. He puts his hand up there, feels wet on there as well. He pulls it back and looks at it. Blood. Oh fuck. He realizes what's happened. He cough-gags out a gallon of blood in an instant, it scattering itself across the room, the floor, the walls, the roof. He stumbles backwards, back out onto the porch, walking more quickly backwards as he did forwards. The boards creak endlessly in the silence. The man holds his chest, where the bullet went in, with both hands. He continues to face blankly at the now-empty spot where the gunshot came from.

He stumbles onto the dirt outside the General Store. Now, he comes to his senses somewhat, and coughs up another load of blood, it running down his chin and over his front like a waterfall. He coughs again, and even more shoots out of his mouth in a mist. Coughing and spluttering in the middle of the street, there's nothing he can do. Just then, another gunshot rings out, this one louder than the last. It continues to echo for several seconds afterwards. The birds fly away with the rapidity of an Olympic runner. The spluttering stops, and the man wheels around.

He has a look of dazed confusion on his face, and a piece of his shirt blasted away, this time right in the middle of his chest. A smaller hole is in his back, and spewing blood. He stares, glassy-eyed, at the sign above the Armadillo Saloon. A smoking rifle disappears behind it. A stream of blood carelessly flows out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin as he looks on. He falls to his knees. Everything stops for him. Birds flying by become stationary, the wind disappears, the tumbleweed stops dead in its tracks. He drops to his face, dead, a pool of blood forming around him.

A head pokes around the side of the Saloon sign. A man comes out of the General Store and nods to him, and begins looking through the dead man's pockets. With a wallet and a silver pocketwatch in hand, he begins walking towards the Saloon. Across the street, through the doors. About thirty townsfolk sit, cowering in fear, in the centre of the room, held hostage by five outlaws with guns. A sixth stands at the top of the stairs, a repeater resting over his shoulder. Wallet steps over a bullet-riddled hostage's corpse on the floor, and walks up the stairs, passing the man up their on the way.

Onto the second-floor balcony now, he walks around the building and climbs up the ladder, to the roof. The rickety ladder creaks as he goes up. He reaches the rooftop, and talks to the gunman. 'How much's in there?' Gunman asks as Wallet hands him his namesake. Gunman opens it, and finds about $33. Casting the wallet aside, he holds out his hand once again. 'And the watch?'. Wallet hands him the pocketwatch, and he clicks it open. He looks inside for a moment, and the clicks it shut again. '9:30' Gunman says. 'Sheriff'll be back soon. Get ready'.

Wallet takes this advice, and jumps down the ladder. Gunman watches as he returns to his position in the General Store. He then looks out over the desert. 'We got one' he says to himself, as a figure appears in the distance. The figure approaches, and soon it becomes apparent who he is. On a large, white horse, Walton Last approaches. A menacing figure, 6'5", he hops off his horse with the agility of a dancer and pulls his two revolvers with the speed of a master gunslinger. Nobody wants to shoot. Everyone's amazed.

The six inside the Saloon walk out, amazed by what they're seeing. Walton approaches, the wind kicking up the tails of his duster and dust surrounding him as he approaches. He looks like a shadow in the cloud of dust. Three gunshots ring out, and three of the goons collapse. The others run to cover, but Walton is able to take one of them down before they can make it. Wallet comes out of the General Store, but Walton takes him down too. Gunman points his rifle, and fires, but Walton does as well. The bullets meet, right in front of Gunman's barrel, and he is blasted into the sign. He falls off the roof and lands on the ground twenty feet below with a thud.

The two others charge out, emptying all of their bullets into the cloud. Walton stands, stationary, for a moment. They think they've killed him. They're wrong. Two bullets fly out of the cloud of dust, each one hitting a man in the head with deadly accuracy. For a moment, there's absolute silence. The dust begins to recede. Walton Last walks out of the remains of the cloud, to Gunman, as he lies spluttering on the dirt. As Walton approaches, Gunman looks at him, terror in his eyes. Walton stops, and holsters both of his Colt Model '92s.

His left hand slowly moves to the back of his belt. It remains for a moment, and then comes back, slowly. In the palm of his hand rests a silver-plated, long-barrelled LeMat revolver. The stuff of legend. Expensive, beautiful and with deadly stopping power. Walton slowly walks up to Gunman, who lays writing on the ground, with several broken bones and shrapnel in his chest and face. He points the gun at Gunman's face. Gunman looks down the barrel in despair. Up at Walton, back to the gun. It's the last thing he sees, as the gun goes off and the contents of his head are splattered over the ground.

Walton turns, returning to his horse. The Saloon doors creak open, and he stops. Looking over his shoulder, he watches as a young woman approaches him from behind. 'What's your name, Mister?' the young and frightened woman asks, like a child. Walton stands there for a moment, and continues to walk, leaving the woman standing there. Walton flutters his jacket open, then closed, and fifteen bullets fall out and onto the ground. He mounts his white horse, it whining as he does, and he sits atop it for a moment, before riding back out of town the way he came.

Yeah, I call bullshit.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Truth of Walton Last

_Author's Note: The third chapter of my debut Fanfic, so I don't have a whole lot of experience here. Please review, and please be honest about the flaws as well as the successes of the material. Even nitpick is necessary. Thanks. Also note that this story contains explicit content (violence, some strong or offensive language). _

* * *

Lake Don Julio. Its shimmering beauty unmatched by any river, mountain or lass from here to eternity. The year is 1882, and it's the height of the Old West. Gunslingers, outlaws and cowboys roam the country. Gunslingers go from town to town, flogging their skills to the highest bidder or trying their luck in a duel against anyone tough enough to try and fight them. Outlaws rob banks, stagecoaches and the like in the hopes of hitting it big and never doing a day's work again. Cowboys, if the stories are true, go around and defend the innocent, protect people from bandits and outlaws.

A boy, about sixteen, watches over the lake. So placid. There's not a splash there, not a ring, nothing to interrupt the beauty of the lake. A large duck, about the size of a rabbit, slowly floats past, on the current. In this moment, nothing could interrupt the tranquillity. The boy is Walton Last. His scuffed boots lay in front of him and he sits, barefoot, in the sand, watching the lake. The sun sets behind it, creating the very image of tranquillity. To Walton, at least.

BANG. A gunshot rings out. The water suddenly becomes agitated, the ducks swimming away in terror, the birds abandoning their homes in the trees in an attempt to hide. No longer placid, no longer tranquil. Walton, jumping at the gunshot, watches as the duck slumps, and the water below him turns red. Walton looks up, to the top of a nearby rock. 'Should I get 'im, Pa?' Walton asks the man sitting atop the rock. 'Yeah. Go on, boy' Richard Last replies, his legs dangling over the side of the rock and a smoking Springfield '92 in his lap. Richard looks at Walton, a certain look in his eye. 'Go on boy,' he says again.

Walton jumps to his feet, removing his coat to reveal nothing underneath save his longjohns. He jumps into the cold river, shivering slightly as he does, and swims laboriously out to the duck. He hasn't had a lot of experience with swimming, and this shows through Walton's... unique style. A sort of doggie-paddle type... thing. Near indescribable. Nevertheless, it's effective. He gets to the duck, grabs it around the neck and swims back to the bank. He climbs on and, upon return, finds Richard waiting for him, standing on the bank and holding his coat. Walton takes the coat thankfully.

'Thanks, Walton'. Richard takes the duck, opens a large satchel throws it in there with two others as Walton pulls the coat on. 'Get yer boots on. We're goin' home. It's almost night-time' Richard says, and Walton complies, pulling his boots on and standing at the ready. Richard and Walton then start walking back to the house. 'You had fun today?' Richard asks after about ten minutes of silent walking. 'Yeah, I s'pose' Walton replies. 'You suppose?'. 'Yeah'.

They continue walking. 'Why don't we have a horse?' Walton asks suddenly.  
'What?'  
'Why don't we have a horse?'  
'Why?'  
'Cause we got a twenty minute walk between the Lake and home, an' I were thinkin' it'd be a lot quicker if we just got ourselves a horse'.  
Richard looks at Walton, as though Walton were asking why he should believe in God, or why men can't get pregnant. Something he should already know.

Richard breathes in, and then begins.

'Walton, there's a lot you don't know about life out here. It's hard.'  
'I know it's hard, Pa'  
'I know you know it's hard, Walton. And you've had it hard compared to most kids your age, I'll tell ya. But you don't really need to deal wit' much compared to us adults'.  
Richard looks at Walton, to see if he understands. Walton nods.  
'You see, Walton, adults gotta deal with a lotta stuff you won't be dealin' with just yet. You know we got the ranch? Well, as adults, the ranch is me an' your mother's responsibility. You don't have them kinds of responsibilities at your age, and you won't have them kinds for a long time, not 'till you're older.'  
'But I still don't know why we don't got a horse'

'Walton, life's hard, and life don't like dealin' you a fair hand. There's a lot that you're gonna want in life that you ain't never gonna get no matter how hard you try. Like... even if you try real hard, you ain't never gonna get a big plantation wit' a hundred an' fifty niggers workin' on it like Ol' Man Boone up north. No matter how hard you try. An' right now, we don't got enough money to get ourselves a horse, no matter how much we want one'.

'But what about Willie Sharp, he got a bunch of horses, he'd sell us one real cheap and-'

Richard sends Walton a "stop talking now" glare, and Walton complies. The two walk in near-silence for the rest of the trip home. They soon reach the Last Ranch, a big (yet badly maintained) house and barn with the smell of roasted vegetables radiating from the kitchen window. 'El! We're home!' Richard calls into the silence. The front door creaks open, and out comes a slim, well-formed woman, an apron around her front. This woman, Eleanor Last, is Walton's mother.

'Richard Last! Where in the hell have you been!' the yells as she approaches him. 'Language, Darlin'!' he says cheekily, and puts his arm around her bottom, lifting her up. She giggles, and the two share a passionate kiss. He nudges Walton with his rifle, still in his right hand. 'Take it, boy' he says, and Walton complies. He does the same with the bag of ducks. 'We got time before dinner?' Richard asks cheekily, and Eleanor smiles her beautiful smile at him. 'Barn free?' she asks.

About three hours later, and it's well into the night. Walton stands on the porch, the lantern illuminating the immediate area, and stares out into the night. Looking up, he can see the North Star. He can hear talking inside. 'Come on, Walton, you'll catch a cold!' Eleanor yells from inside. For the first time, he notices the chill, and it runs up his spine. 'Comin', Ma!' he yells. He catches one final glimpse, then turns and opens the door with a creak, his feet thunking on the rattly porch floorboards. He steps into the warm house (maybe too warm, he thinks to himself) and removes his coat.

On the dinner table lies a roast duck, and a tires Eleanor laying the final plate down as Richard carves a leg off the roast and puts it on his plate. He puts the other leg on Walton's, and proceeds to pile meat onto it. 'What're you doing?' Eleanor asks him as he puts a sizeable chunk of the duck breast onto Walton's plate. 'He's a growin' boy, El. Needs the meat. He's too skinny as is,' Richard says to her. 'Well, don't stuff him to death now' she says. 'Walton, where'd you put the gun?' Richard asks, now digging into his potatoes. Eleanor takes most of the other breast and puts it on her plate. 'Put it next to the outhouse, out back' Walton says.

This is the ritual. Walton knows that, every time they come back from hunting, Richard'll ask him about the gun. And Richard knows that, every time he asks, Walton'll say some variation of 'next to the outhouse'. It's becoming about as habitual as dressing in the morning. 'Walton, you know how to shoot?' Richard asks, halfway through dinner. 'Not really, Pa,' Walton says, 'Only what you've taught me'. Richard looks at him for a moment, the cogs turning in his head. 'You wanna see something?' Richard asks, after about a minute of thought. 'Yeah, sure, Pa' Walton replies.

Richard pulls his chair back, wipes his face with a napkin and stands. He then turns and does a half-walk, half-jog to the house's back room. Eleanor looks at him curiously for a moment, before her face changes expression suddenly - to a cross between shock and disapproval. She's realized what's about to happen. She stands, but doesn't bother with any pleasantries that leaving the dinner table would generally entail. She approaches the back room, just as Richard comes out with a fancy-looking chestnut gun case. Walton sits up straight, intrigued, as Eleanor obscures his view.

Richard seems incredibly excited by what he's about to do. 'What do you think you're doing?' Eleanor asks, somewhat frantically, but still fairly controlled and calm. 'Boy's growin' up, El,' Richard says, 'I-'  
'You nothin'! Put that box back where you got it right now, Richard!'  
'But the boy-'  
'I ain't see that case for seventeen years, an' I ain't seein' it again now!' Eleanor says, raising her voice slightly, clearly angry.  
'What's in there?' Walton asks. The two squabbling parents go quiet. Richard approaches the dinner table, Eleanor looking at him angrily as he sets it down and begins to open it.  
'What I'm gonna show you, Walton, is somethin' I ain't had outta this box in seventeen years. It's special to me. Not necessarily to your Ma, but to me,' he looks behind him slightly as he says this, treading water.

'But what is it?' Walton asks again.

Richard places his hand on the top of the polished case and opens it. He puts his hand inside, and pulls out a long-barrelled LeMat revolver. The gun's silver-plated with a polished wooden handle. Richard pulls out one of the bullets, and places it in the revolver. He clicks the wheel into place, and pats Walton on the shoulder, offering the gun to him. 'Wanna go outside?' Richard asks. Walton looks at him, takes the gun and smiles.

Richard puts a can on the fencepost, and starts walking back to Walton. 'Now, pull the hammer back and aim!' Richard yells to him as he approaches. Soon, Richard is standing next to Walton, and he's deep in concentration. 'Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out' Richard says to him. Walton drops his left hand, now holding the gun only in his right. He takes aim, and... BANG! The hammer connects, the bullet flies out, and the can gets knocked over. Smoke comes out the front, and the gun jumps back. Walton's somewhat surprised by this last part, and chuckles. 'It's okay, boy, you'll get used to it' Richard says, noticing this.

'You like that?' Richard asks.  
'Yeah. It was fun, Pa' Walton says. 'Thanks'  
'I ain't fired that thing in... shit, it'd be eighteen years now' Richard says, taking the gun off of Walton and opening the cylinder.  
'Eighteen years? Where'd you get it?' Walton asks as the casing drops out of the cylinder and into Richard's hand. Richard pockets it.

'Wanna shoot again?' he asks.  
'Yeah' Walton says, and Richard loads another round into the gun from his pocket.  
'How'd you get the gun, Pa?' Walton asks again.  
'How'd I get it? Durin' the war. I-'  
'Boys, it's late, come on inside!' Eleanor yells.  
Richard chuckles. 'I'll tell ya another day, hey?' The two start walking back to the house.

Eleanor comes out the back door, and begins walking across the way. 'Where you goin', Darlin'?' Richard asks. 'Outhouse!' she calls as she opens the door, then closes it behind her. 'Well, don't get bit by nothin'!' He calls, and they open the back door and step inside. 'Come on, let's get you to bed' Richard says to Walton as he steps inside. He walks to the dinner table, where the case lies, and he opens it. He's about to put the gun in, when there's a knock at the door. 'Damn' Richard says. 'Comin'!' He yells to the visitor. 'Walton, come over here an' put this gun away' Richard says, and Walton takes the gun and the box.

Walton walks to the opposite side of the table, smiling to himself. Nice gun, he thinks, taking a closer look at the LeMat in the light. He notes an engraving in the side, "Richard Last", and the fine craftsmanship. The door creaks open, but Walton pays no real notice. Long barrel. I've read about this, Walton thinks to himself. They'd make these long-barrelled ones, and they'd have big stocks like rifles. Pa must've taken his off. Explains the handle. Ain't like a normal LeMat's. BANG! Walton's shocked. His head darts up at the sudden noise, and he sees his father clutching his neck with both hands, blood running down it.

Richard looks at Walton. He can see a look of terror in his eyes, and they moisten up. Walton's never seen his father absolutely terrified. All stops for one moment, where Richard and Walton share a final moment. And then... BANG! The unbelievably loud sound of a shotgun fills the quiet room, putting a ringing in Walton's ears. Richard is thrown back into the wall behind him, a bloody mist everywhere. All Walton can hear is the ringing. A man runs into the room with a double-barrel shotgun, smoking at the end. A cigarette hangs out of his mouth. He's clad fully in black - black gloves, duster, hat, boots, the lot. Three other men shuffle into the room, similarly dressed.

The man with the shotgun wipes blood off of his face with a gloved hand. One of them looks at Walton, with the pistol, and points his own gun at him. He says something, but Walton can't quite tell what. The back door swings open, and Eleanor walks in. She wails something out, a word, maybe a scream. The man with the gun on him wheels around, shocked, and fires upon Eleanor. The bullet hits her in the chest, and she disappears behind the door. Walton stands. He's terrified now. He raises the LeMat, pointing it at the man that just murdered his mother, and fires. He hits the man in the shoulder, and he falls backward, blowing the second bullet from his double-barrel into the door frame.

The other three jump into action and open fire on Walton. He takes cover behind the stove, and sits as bullets bounce off and the window smashes above him. The window! His mind springs into action. The shooting stops, the men out of ammo. Walton hears one of them pull out a revolver. He stands and hurls himself out the smashed window, landing in the dirt below. He feels a sharp pain in his face as he lands, but he doesn't mind that now. He stands and begins running into the darkness of the night. He jumps the fence, out of the Last Ranch's bounds, and keeps running. He hears screaming from inside the house, but continues running. He feels the dirt crunching under his bare feet, and watches as the house slowly fades into the distance.


	4. Chapter 4 - Man on a Dark Horse

_Author's Note: This Fanfiction contains mature content - swearing, explicit violence and some offensive language - so watch it. This is my first Fanfic, so I'll ask if you can please leave reviews with your honest thoughts. Like everyone, I want to improve. _

* * *

Armadillo, 1904. Seven in the morning. The sun's come up, and yet a cool breeze is still blowing through the town. People have yet to converge in the saloon and make a hellish ruckus, and everything's peaceful. Joseph Byrd and Cecil Helden sit outside, both on fold out chairs and with a large fold out table in front of them and shared between. A newspaper rests next to a plated steak, vacant. Cecil (pronounced Sess-sil, not See-Sil, as he's quick to point out) lifts a mug of coffee to his mouth. He takes a sip, lowers it, then places it on the fold out table.

'Coffee's too hot' Cecil says  
'Wait for it to cool down, then' Joseph playfully retorts  
'Gotta listen to your cutomers, Joe'  
'Well, you ain't a customer 'till seven-thirty, friend'  
'Then at seven-thirty, make me a proper coffee' Cecil says  
Joseph chuckles.

'How's Amanda?' Joseph asks  
'Swell,' Cecil says, 'Only got kicked outta the house twice this week'  
Joseph chuckles again. 'How's the store doing?'  
'Pretty good. Only Gunsmith in Armadillo, 'course we're makin' money'.  
'Ain't that dandy'  
'Ain't it, though?'  
'Indeed it is. You hear about the new Sheriff?'  
'New Sheriff?'

'Wally Sackett.'  
'Sounds like a city boy'  
'He is a city boy. He were up at Blackwater on the 26th, back in '99'  
'Thought only that Ricketts guy got through that?'  
'Lotta people think that. Actually four guys. Ricketts, some dude named Oates or somethin', an' our guy'  
'What about the fourth?'  
'I... anyway, this guy's been transferred from Blackwater. Got here last night. Goin' on the grand tour this mornin'.'  
'I-'

Both of them stop, at the sound of chinking boots, as a man walks up the street, a Spencer repeater resting over his right shoulder, his hand on the handle. A sheriff's badge, pinned to his right breast, glistens in the early morning sun. He walks past the General Store, and observes these two peculiar men eating breakfast together, outside, at seven in the morning. He stops, and comes back a couple of steps. 'What're you two boys doin' out so early?' he asks them.

'Nothin' much, Sheriff. You?' Cecil asks, the cynical man speaking with a hint of resentment in his voice.  
'Tourin' the place. Don't know nobody. You boys are?' Sackett asks.  
Joseph stands, pushes his chair back and walks down onto the sand below to greet Sackett.  
'Name's Joseph. Joseph Byrd. I run the General Store 'round here'.  
'And him?' Sackett asks.  
'Cecil Helden' Cecil says as though he resents the very presence of other human beings in Armadillo. This is friendly Cecil.  
'And what's he do?' Sackett asks  
'Gunsmith' Cecil replies, somewhat apprehensively

Sackett stands there for a moment, thinking about what to say. He steps back once more, opens his mouth. He rethinks. Closing his mouth, he nods to Cecil and Joseph, and continues his walk. Cecil and Joseph listen for his chinking boots, the sound of which become dimmer and dimmer as the wind begins to pick up. Joseph takes a step back, and leans against the wall. 'See, nice feller' Joseph says, an amused grin on his face. 'Or you sad you had to talk to another person?' Cecil looks up at him in disgust.

The boots continue to chink ominously. Wally Sackett keeps walking along, shotgun over shoulder, not a care in the world. First day on the job's always the best, he thinks to himself. Don't gotta do nuthin'. Just walk around town, meet new people, maybe pick up a drunk. Always gets worse about a week in. Outlaws start rollin' into town, you have to start dealin' with stuff you usually turn a blind eye to in your first week. Within two weeks, you've usually ended up killing a guy, whether it be a kidnapper, a gunfighter, or some dumb drunk who never thought that waving a broken bottle and a loaded revolver at a Sheriff was a bad idea.

The boot chinks stop. Only the sound of the wind fills the air. Sackett stands in shadow. He looks up, his eyes meeting those of a strongly-built man, clad in all black with a bandanna over his face, and riding a black horse. 'Sir?' Sackett asks. The man on horseback continues to look at him. There's not much emotion in his eyes, if any. He just looks. 'Sir?' Sackett asks again. The man doesn't budge. There's creaking in the distance, and Joseph's head pokes around the side of the General Store for a moment. The man looks at Joseph for a moment, the same expression, the same emotionless eyes. Joseph's head darts back, and there's whispering.

The man's eyes dart back to Sackett. Sackett keeps one eye trained on the man's face, the other on his revolver - nothing special, a Colt Frontier not dissimilar to his own. Sackett's wary. This man could do anything, be ready for anything. Rare on the first day, but he's heard stories of other Sheriffs who've been hit with full-blown gang shootouts in the street on theirs. 'State your business here, sir' Sackett says, still wary. No response. Sackett lowers his shotgun, resting the barrel in his left hand and putting his finger on the trigger.

'Sir, state your business or leave, or I'll be forced to arrest you' Sackett says to the man, a hint of anger in his voice. The man, again, keeps his blank expression. Right then, this guy's not gonna budge, Sackett thinks to himself. This could go very wrong very fast and for a lot of people. If I pull the gun on him, he could pull his. Hell, even if I take the gun, he could have another on him somewhere. Fuck it. Sackett cocks the shotgun and takes a step back, pointing it at the man from his hip. He resrs on his right leg and leans back a bit, a more comfortable position. 'Sir, get off the horse'. He doesn't respond. 'Sir, get off the horse right now, or I will be forced to shoot you'.

The man sits there for a moment, completely idle. Sackett takes a step forward. The man then mercifully dismounts, pulls out his Colt and hands it to Sackett. That was easy, he thinks. 'Now, come on, sir, let's take you up the road' Sackett says. The man starts walking. 'Walk in front, sir' Sackett says to the man, and he follows the instruction. Sackett follows about three or four feet behind him, shotgun trained on his back lest he try and escape. 'Caught one already, Sheriff?' Joseph asks as Sackett and the man in black pass the General Store. Cecil, for once, looks interested in something beyond the paper and his morning coffee. 'Maybe' Sackett says dismissively, continuing the walk.

'You ever been to Armadillo, son?' Sackett asks when out of earshot. The man in black doesn't have a response. Sackett doesn't need one. 'Because here in Armadillo, we don't take kindly to strangers turnin' up unannounced and uninvited, comin' in here and causin' all kinds of trouble'. Sackett's lecture continues for some time, until finally they reach the jail. 'Open the door' Sackett says to the silent man. He complies, and the door swings open with a creak. The two walk inside, past the sleeping Deputy Hughes, and to the complimentary cell provided with every visit by troublemakers. The door opens, a metallic scraping filling the room. Hughes fidgets in the wooden highchair that's served as his bed for the past three years.

Sackett swings the cell door shut, and takes a step back, leaning against a table on the other side of the room. He puts his shotgun up against the wall in a holder, about five feet away from the cell, and looks at the man. 'What's your name, boy?' Sackett asks him curiously. No answer. 'Where you come from?'. Again, no answer. He continues with these questions for quite some time, and the man simply sits on the bed and looks blankly out the window in the corner of the room. And each and every time, there's no response, not so much as a grunt.

'You know what, boy?' Sackett says, finally, 'I don't like it when people don't tell me what I wanna know. I don't like that one bit. So I am gonna leave you in this cell until I do. I'm gonna let you sit in here and rot. If in a week you don't feel like talkin', you'll still be in this cell. If, in a month, you don't feel like talkin', you will still be in this cell. If, at the goddamn end of days you don't feel like talkin', you will still be rottin' in this fuckin' cell, do I make myself clear?' he says with the anger and authority that's broken a hundred men before him. Hughes fidgets again. The man looks at Sackett and raises an eyebrow in an "I dare you" fashion, the most human emotion that's come out of the man since arrival.

'Fine. Fine then. I'll see you' Sackett says, turning to the door, about to leave the room. He comes to a dead stop as his hand hits the handle, however. A hoarse voice fills the room. A voice that sounds as though it hasn't been used in years. So, naturally, the owner of said voice has a hard time getting his words out the first time around. 'Beg your pardon?' Sackett says, turning. He absent-mindedly drops the man's Colt on the table, and steps forward. 'What?' he says again? 'Walton Last' the man says in his coarse voice. 'Name's Walton Last' Walton looks at Sackett.

'Walton Last. You ain't gonna be causin' no trouble now in my town, are ya, Walton Last?' Sackett says. 'Not intentionally' he replies, suddenly becoming interested in a crack in the wall. 'Well, I gotta keep you in here for at least a day so I don't look like a damn fool. I'll let you out tomorrow, unless you cause us any more trouble now'. Sackett looks at him, as though he knows some trouble's going to get caused. Sackett observes him. What IS this guy up to? he thinks to himself. You don't just ride into town and get arrested if you ain't up to nothin'. This guy's got something up his sleeve, I just don't-

BANG BANG BANG!

Sackett wheels around, and Hughes bolts up, struggling in his seat. Sackett grabs his shotgun and Walton's Colt, then makes for the door. 'Hughes, take this' he says, tossing the deputy the Colt. He takes his own gun out of the holster and puts the Colt in there in its stead, then rushes out the door and onto the porch behind Sackett. The two look up. A man with a gun walks backwards out of a house, a screaming young woman in his arms, used as a human shield. The man has blood on his face, as does the inside of the open door from which he had just appeared. The woman continues kicking and screaming, but to no avail. He wheels around, and a bunch of people file out onto the street to see the events unfold.

Sackett and Hughes come forward, towards the man. 'You boys throw your fuckin' guns down right now or I'll blast this lovely lady's brains all over the goddamn street!' he yells. Throughout the crowd, there are murmurs of things like 'the pastor...'. Yes, indeed, that is the pastor's daughter, and that was the pastor's house. The pastor himself is likely splattered across the hostage taker's face. 'Throw down yer goddamn guns!' he screams. Sackett and Hughes do as the crazy gunman says. 'Boy, what're you doing?' Sackett yells at the man. 'What's your name?'

'Clay Hewitt' the man calls back, both in anger and fright. 'Get away! Everyone! Get the fuck away!' he continues to scream. 'Come on, Clay, we don't wanna hurt you' Sackett says, trying to calm the man down to no avail. 'Just let the lady go and we can settle this like men'. 'NO!' Clay lets out a furious scream. 'You listen to me, Mister, I don't know who you are but you can't-' BOOM! Clay stops dead in his tracks. Quite literally, actually. Everyone looks around for the shooter. In the very center of Clay's forhead is a single bullethole. Blood splatters the right of the woman's face, and she screams in terror. A stream begins to run down Clay's own face.

The gun falls to the ground with an thunk. Clay soon follows, his arms outstretched. His leg begins to twitch uncontrollably, and his eyes start darting around. Whether this is a conscious movement, or if Clay is even alive at this point, is debatable. The real issue is: who is the gunman. Sackett turns around and faces the jail. He sees something. About a hundred feet away, in the jail cell, there is Walton Last. His jacket is off, and a holster, designed to hold a pistol hidden on his back, is empty. In his right hand is a smoking, silver LeMat revolver.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Jailhouse

_Author's Note: This is my first Fanfic, and so I'd like honest reviews on it if at all possible. This chapter contains mature content - namely coarse language - if you'd like to know. _

* * *

'You're new here, Sheriff?' Walton asks Sackett as he leans back against the wall. Walton's LeMat revolver now rests next to the Colt, and a rifle that Sackett found on the horse, on the Jailhouse table  
'Why?' Sackett asks  
'I hear people talkin' 'bout the new Sheriff in town'  
'Yeah, I'm new.'  
'Why?'  
'Why does that concern you, Walton?' Walton looks at Sackett questioningly. Sackett notices the look.

'Transferred. From Blackwater'  
'Blackwater? Ain't exactly mean bush'  
'Yeah, well' Sackett says, a little tired.  
'Why'd you get transferred?' Walton asks him.  
'I, uh... we had a difference of opinion, me and the Blackwater guys'  
'What'd you do?'  
'I violated their rules'  
'How?'  
'Extreme methods'

'Extreme methods?' Walton repeats  
'Indeed'  
'I thought Blackwater was a nice place. No crime and that'  
'Oh, there's crime'  
'How much?'  
'Enough for there to be guys like me there to keep it in check'  
'How extreme were your extreme methods?'  
'Extreme'  
'Is that really necessary?'

Sackett stands. He's been asked this question several times. He's been asked by friends, family, his superiors, townsfolk. Hell, even people who've heard the stories. He was once in Chuparosa, following up on this one man, part of a party of nine, who liked to rob banks. The other eight had been caught, but not this man, and he'd travelled from West Elizabeth to Nuevo Paraiso to get him. He found him, holed up in the Saloon. He'd killed a comfort lady, and anyone who got near him was thought to be next. By the end of the shootout, Sackett had blew off one of the man's hands, knocked out all of his teeth, and taken out an eye with a glass bottle. Naturally, people new the stories of Blackwater's esteemed police department.

A man in Chuparosa had asked him, after the deed was done, whether or not such extreme methods were necessary. And Sackett told him that, yes, they were. This man alone had killed seven people. He had evaded capture for three years after robbing the Blackwater Bank with his posse. The others had been relatively sane, they confessed when they were told to confess, most never admitted to killing anyone, and the ones who did were remorseful about it. Not this man. This man laughed in the face of police, he did horrible things to one of the hostages, a woman of only sixteen, during the bank shootout. Yes, extreme methods are necessary.

'You know, Walton,' Sackett begins, picking his words carefully, 'law abiding towns are that for a reason. Take Blackwater. We've got Thieves' Landing to the south, gangs in the mountains and Injuns in the woods. We don't maintain the safety that Blackwater provides or enhance the lives of its residents by being polite'. He pauses for a moment. He goes to the other side of the room, grabs a bottle of scotch and a glass, and fills it up. He takes a swig, and takes his position on the wall again. 'Law abiding towns aren't run by law abiding men. For their town to stay as idealistic and as safe as it is, them townsfolk need a little more'n Jesus in their hearts,'

He takes another swig of the scotch. 'What they need is a man with a rifle perched on the tallest rooftop, nailing outlaws on the approach from afar. They need men who'll beat information out of someone, not men who'll ask politely and hope for the best. And everything you do up there needs justification. Each and every one of 'em up there's a goddamn politician, nothin' more. You blow someone's foot off, you got a hundred pounds of paperwork to go through to justify why you did it. It ain't like that out here. Armadillo is the last stand. The last stand.'

He finishes his glass, and refills it. 'This is the biggest town in the Old West, but it's also the last. One day, Armadillo ain't gonna be here. One day, Armadillo'll be just like Tumbleweed, and them Blackwater modernists'll build a new town over it, just like their own. Mark my words - the day Armadillo dies, the Old West goes with it.' He finishes his second glass of scotch, and starts drinking out of the bottle. He walks to the door and looks out, for Deputy Hughes, who he believes is desposing of Clay's body. He wheels around and faces Walton. 'Why're you here, boy?' he asks. He's clearly starting to get a bit tipsy.

Walton looks at him, not entirely sure what to say. 'I'm lookin' for some old friends' he says. Sackett looks at him. 'Old friends?' he asks. 'Have you ever heard of Abner Bollard?' Walton asks him, firmly.  
'Abner Bollard? Cripple feller?' Sackett replies, curious.  
'Maybe. I heard he was hear. Describe him to me'  
'Pretty tall, sorta old. Last I saw him, anyway.'  
'You know him?'  
'Sure, I know him. Lives up in Blackwater with his daughter, Heidi. Don't know much about him being in Armadillo, but I know he's up at Blackwater now.'

'What's he do?' Walton asks  
'He don't really have a job,' Sackett says. 'Heidi does most of the work. Poor guy when I last saw him. Can't walk properly, had this massive injury, they had him layin' down for eight months or somethin'. Legs never worked proper again'.  
'Where does he live?'  
'Blackwater Hotel. He owns the Saloon, so he struck up a deal with the Hotel's owner - that's some feller called Grover Pratt - so that he can live up on the top floor and do whatever he wants with the place s'long as Grover gets good beer every once in a while to give customers'.  
'So, he lives on the top floor of the Blackwate Hotel?' Walton asks him.

Sackett takes another swig out of the bottle. 'Yeah' Sackett says. 'How do you know him?' he asks. 'He and my father were friends' Walton replies. Sackett leans back, and looks at Walton. 'You's gonna have a hard time gettin' youself ter Blackwater' Sackett says, the alcohol clearly affecting him. Must be good grog. 'Gotta go through Thieves' Landin' if yer wanna get over dere. Or ya can swim. Don't recommend it, though. Current'll take yer off in a second'. Sackett places the half-empty bottle of scotch on the table. 'I'll let yer out t'morrow morning' he says.

He opens the Jailhouse door and walks outside, onto the porch. Cool night air floods into the Jailhouse, and walton puts his jacket back on. All this time, he hasn't taken the bandana off his face. Hell, I could be anyone, he thinks. What's that dumb drunk think he's doing, not checkin' out my face. I could be goddamn Walton Lowe or Ike Bollard comin' into town for a drink. Hell, ain't nobody ever seen Ike Bollard's face. Ol' drunk. Probably best he don't see it, 'least not entirely. Won't be able to identify me. Hughes approaches. 'Hey, Deputy, watch this guy. I need a piss'.

About an hour later, Walton sits atop is black horse. His LeMat is safely tucked away in his back holster, his Colt on his hip and the rifle on the side of his horse. Sackett leans on the wall, trying his darndest to look sober and with great success. Looks like the gruff badass the town expects, even if he's seeing four of everything. Uncrossing his arms, he scratches his white beard. 'Go on now, boy' Sackett says, looking at Walton. Walton looks equally badass in his black longcoat and the like. Hughes stands there, looking tired and irritable. Walton gives a little two-fingered salute to the two men, and begins riding off, down the road.


	6. Chapter 6 - On the Road

_Author's Note: It's my first Fanfic, so honest reviews full of constructive criticism'd be nice. This chapter contains mature content - primarily coarse language, violence and themes - so be advised. _

* * *

It's been several hours, and Walton and his horse are still riding. It's the early hours of the morning now. The sun has begun to rise, casting a beautiful orange tinge across the otherwise lifeless desert. One thing about the Old West that never gets included in those romanticized penny dreadfuls, the bane of every cowboy, outlaw, gunslinger and snake oil salesman, is distance. Penny dreadful writers either have no sense of distance, or they conveniently leave this part out. Between Armadillo and Thieves' Landing is close to sixty miles, and it takes a long time to cover that on a tired horse. It's also painfully boring.

It's something Walton's come to expect. He observes a deer run around in the distance. It's lost, and yet looks endlessly majestic in the gaze of the rising sun. When the deer's gone, he examines the brush. He listens closely to the noise his horse's hooves make as they sink into the dirt road for any abnormalities. Yes, on the road between Armadillo and Thieves' Landing, your horse stepping on a plank of wood suddenly becomes both notable and exciting. And because Thieves' Landing is so unbelievably isolated (which it has to be so as to avoid any unnecessary attention), stories of the box of rusty nails or the plank of wood you found in the dirt on the way there suddenly becomes a Saloon story worthy of Homer.

On occasion, Walton might see a man in the distance, equally bored out of their mind. Having a companion's interesting, but only for a short while. Topics of discussion quickly become exhausted, and you're stuck there with your dick in your hands for the rest of the trip trying to think up something to say. The long rides between major towns in the Old West are capable of sucking out anything and everything interesting you have to say in an instant. The desert just has that sort of quality. Case in point, as Walton suddenly becomes amazed at the presence of a nearby tree. Something alive! his brain screams out, starved of imagination.

Another thirty minutes of riding, and the sun's beautiful orange gaze is all but gone. Even less to think about. While one may think that the concept of there being "less than nothing" is impossible to comprehend, one can be enlightened by a ride from Armadillo to Thieves' Landing. Hell, at least it's not Blackwater to Escalera, Walton thinks to himself, chuckling slightly. Then the thought goes, and Walton is once again bored out of his mind, having bled dry that one final thought for a hint of something interesting. What's this? he thinks to himself, spying something far off in the distance.

The thing in the distance becomes larger and larger as Walton nears. He's intrigued. It's still early in the morning, so it can't be anything that important, can it? Still, Walton continues, desperate for something to dwell on. He gets closer and closer, and... A CAMP! Civilization! He picks up the pace, getting his horse into a gallop, and heads towards the camp. He spies four tens, all surrounding a two-horse wagon with a white tarp covering. Nobody appears to be behind the reigns, but that doesn't matter. As his horse gallops up, he sees hints of a campfire obscured by the wagon. His horse slows to a halt, and he dismounts, making sure to have both his Colt and his LeMat at the ready in case they're bandits.

He hears talking, both male and female voices, from the other side of the wagon as he walks around. He pulls his Colt out of the holster and holds it down to his side, prepared to shoot at a moment's notice, and peeks his head around the side. He sees a large, out-of-shape man in his mid-fifties laughing and dancing about, telling what appears to be a horrendously funny joke to three women sitting around him. The women appear to be his daughters, all around the same size and age. As the man dances around, boisterous and completely oblivious to Walton's presence, Walton decides to make himself known. Two knocks on the side of the wagon promptly alert the group.

There's three squeals from the three girls, and the half-standing man tries to take a step backwards, only to collapse over the log that previously served as his seat. 'What the fuck you doin' here, boy!' the man yells in terror. He sees the girls' shocked reactions, and adds 'Pardon my French, ladies'. He stands and pulls out a revolver, pointing it at Walton. Walton holsters his own gun as a sign that he isn't their to hurt them. 'You ain't one o' them Waltons or Bollards, are ya, boy?' the man says, still terrified. 'I'm not a threat' Walton says, putting both of his hands up and stepping into better light. The three ladies still look terrified.

'You promise you won't try nuthin'?' the scared man asks. 'Nothing' Walton says. The man appears to lower his guard at this, and takes a deep breath out. 'Well, I say, mister, you goddamn scared the bejesus outta me' he says, holstering his pistol. He walks up to Walton, stepping over the logs and a pot that he kicked over in fright. 'What's your name, friend?' the man says, shaking Walton's hand with vigour. 'Walton Last' Walton says. 'Well, I'm Arthur Boone. These lovely ladies here're my daughters. That's Doreen-' he points to the one on the right, brown-haired, slim. '-that's Connie-' he points to the one in the middle, a little pudgy with blonde hair that matches his own. '-and Lydia' He points to the youngest, black-haired, on the end.

Five minutes later, and the campsite is back in order. Lydia, Connie and Doreen are changing in their tents, and Walton leans against the side of the wagon. Arthur asked him to surrender his Colt as a sign of good faith, though Walton, ever wary, didn't tell him about the LeMat lest he be a thief of some sort. Arthur squats down on the ground, bored, tending to the fire. Walton's horse, tied to the side of the wagon, whinnies. 'So, how'd you find yourself out here, Walton?' Arthur asks after a moment, crushing up a charred log with his stick. 'How'd I get out here?' Walton repeats.

'I'm going up to Blackwater' he says. 'Got an old friend up there that I gotta meet.'  
'A friend up there that you gotta meet, hey?' Arthur asks. 'You wouldn't be thinkin' 'bout takin' that road they got through Thieves' Landin' to get there, would yer?'  
'It's the quickest way there'  
'Ain't no good sort ever came outta no Thieves' Landing'  
'No good. I get around that. Rather Thieves' Landing than gettin' down that river'

'What's wrong with the river?' Arthur asks, faux-curiously  
'Gets too rough too fast. Could get carried off. Besides, gotta deal with bears an' Indians and the like once you're over. 'Least in Thieves' Landing you can reason with what's killin' you' Walton says  
'Much as I hate them savages up north, I'd still take the river pass.' Arthur has a hint of anger in his voice now. Silence, for about a minute.

'How you make your livin', Arthur?' Walton asks to try and break the decidedly awkward silence.  
'Travelers, mostly. We take 'em in overnight, they pay us, and they're on their way the next mornin'. Just a little less cash is all' Arthur looks at him for a second, something working in his head, then returns to the fire.

Walton becomes a little frightened. No knowing what this fat bastard's thinking, he thinks to himself. Could be plannin' to rob me, rape me, maybe he's just a little weird. 'How about you, Walton, how you make a living?' Arthur asks. 'Don't do much nowadays. Came out here from down West. 'Bout ten miles north of Brimstone. Owned a general store down there. Came out here about two years ago, lived in Blackwater'. Probably the best story Walton's ever pulled out of his ass. 'That so?' Arthur asks, somewhat suspicious.

'You've got yourself some fine daughters, Arthur' Walton says.  
'Huh, you can say that again' Arthur says, chuckling to himself and calming down.  
'Sorry?'  
'My daughters. Connie and Doreen're fine, but Lydia. God, Lydia'  
'What about her?'  
'I'll let you in on a little secret. Back when Lydia were born, a man named Donald something used to come 'round to the house quite regularly. Caught my wife shooting him looks one time. About ten months later, Lydia pops out. Funny that'  
'Funny' Walton says, a little worried now.

'Not my favourite. Fruit of sin. Little bitch. Promised God that I'd give her to him when she turned eighteen' Arthur says, annoyed  
'Convent?' Walton asks.  
'Yeah' Arthur says. 'Six more months and she'll be in the Lord's hands'.  
'Her sisters share that view?'  
'Nah. If not for me, they'd've already done away with her'.

Arthur stands all of a sudden. 'Goin' for a piss' he says, and then walks about twenty paces to a bush of Wild Feverfew. Walton turns around as Arthur sits down, and he hears rustling. Probably not the best thing to be listening to, sure. Fidgeting, rustling, the click of a- wait, what? Walton turns around, and sees Arthur pointing his revolver right at him. Walton ducks, and Arthur fires, small chunks of wood and splintering flying out of the wagon's side. Walton sticks his hand down the back of his jacket, and produces his LeMat. One shot, and Arthur drops the gun, grasping his lower right arm.

Blood runs down his hand like a waterfall and down onto the ground. It continues to pour out of his veins even as he reaches down with his left hand, trying to pick the gun back up. Walton fires again, and he falls backwards onto his right arm. He looks down at he hole in his stomach, from which blood pours at an even faster rate. He looks at Walton, glassy-eyed, and makes one final bid for the gun. BOOM. Arthur's stunned for a moment, then a trickle of blood runs out of his mouth. The droplets begin splatting on the ground. He falls backwards in the dirt, dead.

He jumps into the back of the wagon, looking through, and finds, to his shock, piles and piles of clothes. He looks around. There's clothes of all shapes, sizes and colours, that of both genders, adults and children. At the very back of the wagon is a huge collection of guns and ammunition. He crawls over the clothes to it, and looks through. A sawn-off shotgun rests at the very top of the pile, loaded, and he picks it up, cracking it open to check for bullets. Stepping out, he finds his Colt resting on the wagon floor and picks it up, putting it back in the holster.

Now out of the wagon, he runs to his horse and jumps on the back. Connie runs out of her tent and looks at Walton, angered, a double-barrel shotgun in hand. 'You get the fuck back here, mister!' she screams in a rather un-ladylike fashion, firing the shotgun after Walton as he gallops away at top speed. Doreen runs into the back of the wagon, and comes out, producing a Carcano. She takes aim. 'Eat this, motherfucker'. She fires, and stumbles back to compensate for the recoil. The bullet hits the dirt right in front of Walton, sending it shooting up into the air. He rides off into the early morning sun, looking back at the Boone wagon in disgust.


	7. Chapter 7 - Thieves' Landing

_Author's Note: This chapter was deleted and then rewritten after the fact in a rather unfortunate and wholly unpredictable series of events, and is consequently much longer and, just maybe, not quite up to scratch. Let me know in the reviews (still waiting for them). _

_This chapter, like all the others, contains mature content - graphic violence, coarse language, themes and sexual suggestion - so discretion is, naturally, advised. _

* * *

Down the road. The road goes on and on, endless, devoid of life. The dust of riders past hangs in the windless air. Under different circumstances, Walton would probably welcome such silence and loneliness. Under different conditions. Not these. In a state of deep thought, he sits a tired man on a tired horse. His feet are sore, his ankle throbbing as though that crazy bitch with her Carcano actually hit him. He's hungry, thirsty, nearly dehydrated, and absolutely exhausted. Not long to Thieves' Landing now, he thinks to himself.

The horse stumbles, and he comes back to reality for a moment. He looks around in the hopes that something's come into view that could take his notice. Nothing. He continues to indulge in his thoughts. That old bastard Boone, he thinks to himself. Everything he said was a lie or a half-truth. I almost have to give him credit, he twisted everything. He may be a murderous, manipulative psychopath, but with a mind like his he could stand before God, and convince the almighty he never did anything wrong with nary a lie told.

Takes a traveller's money and sends him on his way? Probably dumps the bastards in the Flat Iron Lake. One has to wonder about his daughter, the Lydia girl. Mother died when she was a little girl? Old fuck probably killed her dead. Promised to "give her to God" when she turned eighteen? Convent my arse, he was gonna bump her off and bury her with his traveller friends. And her sisters. They never took that crazy bastard's vow, and he said they'd do her the second he was gone. Wonder if she's okay?

That's too depressing a prospect. Change the subject, change the subject. What am I doing here? He hears some rustling down behind him, but he only comes out of the bubble for a moment before delving back in. Walton's criticized Boone for his lies and half-truths. But in this respect he's somewhat hypocritical, because everything he said at the camp, while not exactly a lie, wasn't exceptionally true either. To be noted, however, he had actually been to Brimstone, down west, all those years ago. He was arrested for messing with Old Danno's cattle in 1886, and that's when he found out who was behind his parents' murders.

He found his first name in 1889 after two years of digging - Eli Hope. All he found of that bastard, however, was a falsified death certificate dated 1884. Another year of digging, and he heard that Hope was hiding out in the hills in Hennigan's Stead. Not a great lead, but still. More digging, more years, and he found another name: Bruce Scranton. No leads followed, but alas. Another name in 1894: Richard Wallach. Three more years of digging, and nothing. What he did know, however, was that all of them were still living in and around New Austin. None of them had bothered moving.

He got a ticket back to New Austin with the Spanish-American War in 1898. Three months of fighting in the rough country got him to Nuevo Paraiso, and he promptly deserted in favour of exacting his revenge. And, just three months ago, at the close of 1903, he got his final name: Abner Mollard. A lot of information came with this one. He had a rough idea of where the man was and who he was affiliated with, so he knew where he should be looking. The stop off at Armadillo helped him out, with Sheriff Sackett narrowing it down from "somewhere in West Elizabeth" to "the third floor of the Blackwater Hotel" for him. So, Mollard became his first target, the first of four murderous men to feel his wrath, and- 'Howdy, friend!'

Walton wheels around in his saddle, Colt in hand and arm outstretched. He cocks the pistol with a click and points it at the source of the noise. Walton's head follows, and he sees a man receding in shock in his saddle. 'Woah, woah, put your gun down, pard! I ain't no troublemaker!' the man shouts, uncertain as to how to best proceed. He first puts his hands straight in the air. Walton holsters the pistol, and the man looks as though he's about to cry out for his mother. 'Ride on up' Walton tells him, and the wary man complies. 'What's your name?' Walton asks him.

'Lyle. Lyle Mouton' he says, stammering slightly.  
'Where you from, Lyle?' Walton asks him. Best to keep up conversation. There's fuck all else to do.  
'Chuparosa'  
'Chuparosa? Been ridin' for a while?'  
'Yeah, set off last week. Made a couple of stops.'  
'You ride all the way out here yourself?'  
'Nah, got rides in stagecoaches, mostly. Most folks're kind enough to let you ride along in the back, get some shut eye'  
'Well, I ain't had too many nice experiences with folks on this road. I wouldn't be askin' for a ride from these kinds of people if I were you'

'You come from Armadillo?' Walton asks him after a few silent moments  
'No, I came from the MacFarlane place.'  
'So you didn't see anything on the road up here?'  
'There were this stagecoach out on the road, some guys from Armadillo were clearin' it up. Dead guy, two dead ladies. A third girl, real young'un, got cut up real bad. I think they took her up to the MacFarlane  
ranch for some help, though'  
Walton quietly sighs in relief.

'You going to Thieves' Landing?' Lyle asks him.  
'No, I'm going to Blackwater. Just passing through. You?'  
'Blackwater too'  
'What're you plannin' on doing once you get set up in Blackwater?'  
'Well,' he gets excited at this, 'I have been called upon by the legendary E.H. Kretzschmar to become his assistant. Have you heard of E.H. Kretzschmar, Walton?'  
'No, sir, I don't believe I have'  
'He's the finest tailor in all the land, he can sew the most elegant of gentlemen's attire with his eyes closed, he can...'

Lyle continues on like this for quite some time. Walton tunes out, hearing without listening. At one point, Lyle's yarn somehow gets onto his hatred of Jews. Walton begins to see something emerge in the distance. Trees. Lots of trees. 'Thieves' Landing up ahead, Mr. Mouton' Walton says, thankful to be shutting the rambling man up. They begin riding into the dark mist that shrouds Thieves' Landing. The mist, and the canopy above, form a near-impenetrable wall through which no light can escape or penetrate. Perfect for thieves, murderers and other assorted criminals.

Walton spots some lanterns in the distance, and soon they're entering the town. There's several warehouses and the like to the right, the Flat Iron Lake shooting a chilling breeze into the unaccommodating town. Shouting can be heard at the Saloon across town. Their horses begin to wander across the unstable bridge, the boards creaking and clunking as they stop. A rough-and-tumble man with dirty skin and a scarred face stands on the bridge, menacing and waiting for someone. He nods to Walton as he passes, and Walton tips his hat to the man. Lyle looks terrified, and follows on close behind.

The two step off the bridge, into the thick of the town, and look around. To the right, they pass the Dixie Rose pleasure house, with a doctor's office, tailor and general store on the left. They soon approach the Saloon. Lyle looks up at a post in fright, and gulps. Walton sees it, too. There's a man dangling from the post, a knife jammed in his neck and the word "CHEAT" scrawled on his chest in his own blood. The two stop and look at the unfortunate man for a moment. Walton takes his horse forwards, hops off and ties it up to the hitching post. When he turns back, he finds that Lyle's still transfixed on the post. 'Come on, Lyle. Hitch up, we're goin' inside'.

Three hours later, and it's midday, though you'd never be able to tell in a place like Thieves' Landing. Walton sits in the very corner of the counter, sipping out of a whiskey bottle. A few feet down the counter, and Lyle and the Barkeep are having an in-depth conversation about what constitutes a tip. Harsh footsteps come up from outside, and the Saloon doors swing open. A scantily-clad woman, in a pink corset and white dress, storms into the Saloon, and it becomes significantly quieter. The Barkeep temporarily stops his debate with Lyle as the woman approaches the counter. He sticks an apologetic face on and hopes for the best.

'Where in the hell is my good-for-nothin' husband?' the woman says, furious. 'I- I don't know, Miss, I-'

'Don't you "I don't know, Miss" me, you lyin' sumbitch, you know s'well as I do that he's here! Where's my husband?' the begins to scream. The men around the Saloon look on, with mixed expressions. Some are shocked, some are chuckling to themselves. One of them laughs out loud and then turns, taking an enormous swig out of his glass as he does. The woman looks at him in disgust for a moment, before turning her attention back to the Barkeep. 'I seriously don't know where he is, Fannie, I-'

She doesn't say anything this time, instead just looking at him, a stern expression on her face. Her face reads "I'm not to be played the fool", and her eyes read "I will set you ablaze". The Barkeep takes the hint. 'Out back, Fannie. Lookin' at the Flat Iron' She turns and starts walking with angered vigour across the Saloon, then out the front door. After a second, everyone resumes what they're doing, as though nothing ever happened. The drunkards and gamblers continue playing their games of Poker, Blackjack and Liar's Dice, Lyle and the Barkeep keep having their conversation about tipping, not a mention of the woman who just stormed into the Saloon. Walton sits there and wonders about her.

BANG! A gunshot rings out throughout the town, and everyone goes near silent again. Someone stands and looks out the door. 'Don't worry, just Mad Jeb and ol' Elmer on the bridge!' there's a cheer from the patrons, who all immediately resume their activities. Walton sees, out the window, the black-clad man from before with the scars, apparently this Mad Jeb, dragging an elderly man with a shitty revolver to the side of the bridge. The dead man's lifted over the side, and hurled off into the rough river. Just as everyone's back to business, there's a yell from the side, and two people come around the building. 'Get your damn hands off me-'

Walton stands and looks out the door, knocking the Whiskey bottle, which teeters and falls onto its side. He watches as a slovenly man in his mid-thirties punches the Fannie woman in the stomach, cutting her sentence off. Then he punches her again, and throws her into the railing. 'Don't you talk to me like that, you whore!' he pulls her back, and throws her down in front of the Saloon, the woman tripping down the stairs and landing with a crack. Everyone starts gathering around the door or on the porch as the man walks down onto the dirt outside the Saloon. Even the Barkeep abandons his post and joins the onlookers. Walton's the last to get out there, and steps out into the middle of the porch.

'Marcos! Stop, Marcos, please! I- I think I broke my leg!' Fannie begins to cry as the man, Marcos, advances on her. 'You' he says, furious. 'You think you can work up at the Dixie and then accuse ME of bein' unfaithful? You ungrateful bitch!' he kicks her in the chest, and she falls backwards, before bursting into tears. 'Marcos, I-' Marcos cuts her off. 'I don't wanna hear it. You've had everyone in this goddamn town. Absolutely fucking everyone. You probably even had Mad Jeb, ain't ya? And you think you have the God-given right to make me feel like shit for tryin' to extend my horizons a little bit?' he kicks her again.

'You think you can do that? You ain't nothin' but a whore. Maybe we should cut them clothes off, let all these nice townsfolk see you for what you really is' he pulls out his knife, and runs it along the corset, slicing it off in one slick move. The same goes for the dress, as Fannie lays on the ground, crying and in pain. Soon, she's exposed save for her undergarments. Marcos'll make short work of those. He slips his knife under one of the staps on her bra, and slices it. He sticks the knife under the other. 'I don't think you wanna be doing that, mister'. Marcos takes the knife in his hand, and turns, curious and furious all at the same time. 'Who said that?' he asks.

Walton takes a step forward, and looks the man in the eye. 'I said, I don't think you should be doing that, sir'. Marcos looks at him as though was he said were completely alien. 'If it's all the same to you, sir, this is my wife, and I will do with my wife as I damn well please. Now, kindly fuck off'. He turns his attentions back to Fannie. She stops squirming on the ground, passing into unconsciousness at the pain of her leg. Her head droops to the side. Marcos leans back in, getting himself into a comfortable position, and sticks the knife back under the bra strap. 'Yeah, show these nice people what you really is' he says to himself, chuckling.

CLICK, BANG!

Marcos drops the knife onto Fannie's chest, and collapses onto one knee. He grabs the back of his right leg with both hands, and screams out in pain, followed immediately by a string of incomprehensible profanity and racial slur. Blood runs down his hands and forms a nice little pool under him. He wheels around on this leg, and faces Walton. 'You're a cheeky fucker, ain't ya?' Marcos asks him. His hand begins to linger on his decidedly shabby pistol. Walton places the smoking Colt back in its own holster. 'Runnin' scared, hey?' Marcos says. He flings his pistol out and fires, missing and smashing the Saloon window.

At the same time, Walton's pistol flies out of his own revolver with lighting speed, and he pulls the trigger just as quickly. There's no fancy show with Marcos's death. The bullet smacks him in the chest, and he lingers there for a moment. The pistol falls out of his hand, and he collapses onto his right side, glassy eyes wide open. The townspeople look at Walton as he holsters his pistol. He looks around. Everyone's quiet. The Barkeep walks up to him, and whispers something in his ear. Walton can't quite make it out, due to how quiet it is, but it sounds something like "get outta here before them Bollard boys get back". Indeed. No rest for the wicked, it seems.


	8. Chapter 8 - Welcome to Blackwater, USA

Two men walk down the cobbled streets of Blackwater. It's cold, almost too cold for the liking of most folks around these parts. The men walk slowly, both rugged up in three undershirts, their Sunday Bests and ankle-deep jackets. Both of them have their frozen hands tucked deep into their pockets, as both the jackasses forgot their gloves for this particular morning walk. One of them tugs at the scarf wrapped around his neck for a moment, before thrusting his hand back into his pocket lightning-quick. The other plods along, watching his breath in the cold silence.

'Wyatt?' the man asks, sorta uncertain with himself. 'Wesley?' Wyatt asks. Wesley pauses for a moment. 'Nuthin'' he says, a short, quick reply. The morning conversations between the two men, Wyatt Brogles and Wesley Reece, often go on like this. Sometimes they go like this for five minutes before they hit upon something worth talking about. Other days, they can continue like this for a half-hour, full-hour, maybe even more, before concluding at a stiff "goodbye" at seven o'clock. They'll then get their families together, then head off to Church for their Sunday service, as they have done for years upon years before. This was a slow news day.

Nothing much happened around Blackwater these days. People stopped rattling on about the Blackwater Massacre of '99 some years ago, and folks were left waddling around, members in their hands, with nothing much to say. Some would assume this is a bad thing - naturally, this distinct lack of events didn't yield the most interesting or adventurous of lives - but, when something did come around, then folks talked. They talked and talked and talked 'till they couldn't talk no more, then they talked s'more. Whenever some drunkard fell off the balcony or got a good stabbing at the Saloon, you'd get half of the town gossiping about how-that-sumbitch-deserved-what-were-comin'-to-'im, and the other half of the town gossipin' about oh-that-poor-feller-I-met-'im-at-church-he-were-so-nice-I-wonder-if-Miss-X-is-okay.

But people talked. News spent like goddamn wildfire 'round Blackwater these days. Some drunk bunks his head on a pole one night in Blackwater, and a month later, you've got the guy in Tumbleweed talking about the twelve injuns that this one fella beat to death with a horseshoe and a piece of rope. The truth can get somewhat bent, however, as one can probably see. But that's because fiction's more fantastical than truth. People don't want to hear about General Forsythe's Pyrrhic victory against the Injuns in 1867, where he crushed their forces but, due to his less-than-firm tactical mind, lost 1200 of his 1500 men.

No, people want to hear the story of how their General Forsythe, with a force of only 250 men, saw the horrors and injustices committed by the Injuns down on the Great Plains, then tracked them to the woods and heroically fought them, without fear, with their numbers ten times his own. Folks make stuff up because they wanna hear a good story, and the real world has a habit of not providin' that real well. But today in Blackwater, there's a story that doesn't require any exaggerating. It's already fantastic and fantastical. Same way people can say to their Grandkids "I was there back in '99", people passing on the street would immortalize (if change some only slightly) what Walton Last did in Blackwater that day.

Mr. Wyatt Brogles and Mr. Wesley Reece continued their walk, hurried a little more than usual as the time approaches 6:40 lest their wives and children get antsy. They've picked up the pace a bit. As they pass the Blackwater nickelodeon, Wyatt spots someone sitting there on a park bench, head hanging limply backwards. People're afraid of curious folk in Blackwater, but that don't make 'em any less curious to folks. The man's breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his eyes shut. 'Wesley' Wyatt says, before grabbing his walking partner's arm. 'Wha-' Wesley begins, but stops himself when he sees the man. Neither of the men are particularly frightened, but they don't expect people like this 'round these parts.

Wyatt and Wesley and pretty much the whole town're respectable folks (apart from some darkies and Miss Marline's boys on the outskirts). Then you had the drifters, cowboys from down in New Austin, mixing with the scoundrels from Thieves' Landing who came 'round when their whores weren't satisfying 'em no more. Soldiers'd sometimes come up from the woods, and they could be better or worse than the drifters and scoundrels depending on what day it was, how much they had to drink, how many of their kinfolk'd been taken off by a bear or an Injun in the night and whether or not they got to have their missus before they head back out tomorrow. This man weren't one of them.

This man, even asleep, held himself curiously. He dressed himself curiously. He weren't a lawman of any kind, neither from New Austin nor West Elizabeth. He had scars all up his face, wore all black. His coat was in bad conditions, scuff marks in some spots and tears in the other. A brown duster coat sat, folded over the back of the chair, to his left. To his right, there was a horse tied to the bench, probably his own. One would hope it's his own. With his left hand, he swatted a fly. He shuffled for a moment, before placing his arm back over the bench, his hand resting on his jacket. His right hand was placed firmly into his jacket. Both Wyatt and Wesley knew what he were holding on to.

'Who d'ya think he might be?' Wyatt asks Wesley after about thirty seconds of examining the man.

'Wouldn't know. I don't know any folk who hold hisself like that' Wesley returns after a moment.

'I think,' Wyatt starts, 'he might be one o' them bounty hunters they got roamin' 'round down there in New Austin. I were takin' with ol' Derek Fulton the other day, an' he says that them government boys're bringin' up some bounty hunters from down south, 'cross the border, even. They's some lawless sumbitches, so Mr. Fulton's thinkin' that them government boys're thinkin' that lawless men're better at catchin' other lawless men than them lawmen'll ever me. He might be one of 'em!'

'I think we'd know 'bout it if some bounty hunters're comin' 'round here. They'd tell us. Warn the public an' all that,' Wesley says. 'Besides, he don't look like nobody who'd be workin' with them government boys. He got his hand on his pistol in there. Boys under government protection don't keep their hand on their gun when they're catchin' shut-eye. Nah, that boy there's done somethin' bad. Or he's about to do somethin' bad. You mark my words, someone'll be dead by the end o' the day if this boy stick around'

At that, Wyatt whips out his pocketwatch, and flicks it over his arm and into his hand as though he's done it a million-and-one times before. He clicks it open, and looks down. 'Wesley, 6:45. We better be gettin' home 'fore the ladies start worryin'.' Wyatt starts walking down the street, in a hurry to get home. The two men can see the town hall's spire in the distance. Wesley stands there for a moment, and watches the man shuffle around in his deep sleep a bit longer. 'Comin'.' he yells after Wyatt. He starts trudging along, then picks up the pace, trying to catch up to his buddy.

... ... ...

Walton's eyes open slowly. He can't see much. He lifts his left hand, and rubs the sand out of his eyes. He feels his hand firmly wrapped around the handle of his pistol. He takes it off, and lifts it into the air. Three pats of the horse, and he stands himself up. He swings his arms behind his back, stretching out, trying to get the feeling back. He groans in pleasant pain as he stretches his muscles, and takes off his hat for a moment before brushing back his hair. Some dirt falls to the ground. He jams his finger into his ear, feeling around for gunk. He does the same with the other ear, switching his hat-holding hand, before fastening the hat back on his head.

He looks around. It's cold. He shivers. Dropping his left hand, he picks up his duster and slides it on, holding the cuffs of his jacket as he does. He scratches the back of his neck, pats his horse again (it neighs in approval) and stretches his arms again, this time only for a moment. Looking up the street, he sees fog. He can make out the outline of someone crossing the street, going into the saloon. A shiver goes down Walton's neck. About a minute later, the man comes out again, a drunk feller leaning on his shoulder like, well, like a drunk feller. The two walk around the corner. Probably own a shop over there or somethin'.

Walton rubs his hands together quickly, then forms a cup and breathes into them. He wipes off the moisture on his duster, then cracks his neck and starts walking up the street. Remember why you're here, Walton, he tells himself. Remember why you're here. His footsteps echo in the near-silent streets. There's some quiet laughter, the sounds of glasses on the bar, a piano and the like radiating from the saloon, but that's all that can be heard in the cool morning. It's Sunday, everyone'll be off at church. Couldn't've picked a better time. Nobody'll come hollerin' when there's listenin' to the Lord to be done.

Walton starts heading to the Saloon. He walks through the swinging front doors, and finds the usual suspects - three fellers on the bench, sipping at their whiskey with moody looks on their faces; a comfort lady leaning suggestively, yet tired, against the wall near the door; three fellers in old waistcoats at the blackjack table; the pianist; the tired barman who seems to have drunk a bit of his own brew; and a partridge in a pear tree. Walton listens to the quiet patrons. One of the three moody guys at the bar rugs up in the cold, pulling his coat closer to his body in a bit to stay warm. The house calls "19" at the table, and one of the men silently decides to hit.

Walton starts walking to the bar, his footsteps quiet, yet obviously apparent in the quiet and moody atmosphere, on the wooden flooring. As Walton approaches the bar, the barman lazily teeters over to a place not yet occupied by a moody drunk and says, in a frail voice, 'Can I help you sir?' Walton approaches the man, then opens his mouth. 'Where can I find Abner Mollard?' Walton asks the barkeep, who looks at him for a moment. 'Heidi?' the man calls. 'Some feller here's wantin' to talk to yer pa!' Walton hears footsteps from in the back room. 'I'm comin'!' A woman's voice calls from inside. A young woman, less than thirty.

The doors swing open, and a less-than-ladylike woman comes through the door. She ties her apron on just as she comes through the door, a pair of dirty white trousers and a man's shirt on under it. Her hair's tied back in a sorta-ponytail, left messy. She's not wearing any lipstick. She's not a hideous woman by any stretch of the imagination, though, despite leaving a lot to it. She's not an hourglass figure, but thin, though still with a little meat on her bones. 'Whatcha lookin' at, mister?' she asks playfully, and Walton averts his gaze slightly. Not exactly one for chit-chat, Walton jumps straight in. 'I've been wantin' to see a Mr. Mollard, a Mr. Abner Mollard. Far as I can work out, you must be her daughter'.

'I am,' Heidi Mollard says. 'Whatchoo want with 'im? He ain't gotten into no trouble real recent, and he's paid his dues, so if you're with them government boys, you better fuck off here and now' she says in a most unladylike fashion, though still a hint of playfulness in her voice. She's almost daring Walton to say he's some lawman or other. 'Nah, ma'am, I ain't no government boy. I just wanted ter see him is all' he says, taking off his hat and wiping his forhead with his hand. She looks at him suspiciously. 'Come on, I'll take yer up to 'im.' Heidi says, before walking around the bar, lifting up the entry and coming out onto the Saloon floor.

'Walk wimme, I'll show you where he is' Heidi says, tapping his shoulder with her hand and signalling "come". Walton follows. She walks confidently in front of him, and starts to ask questions. 'Whatchoo wanna be doin' with my father?' she asks him first up. 'Business partner' Walton replies innocently. Didn't work, he thinks. Her walk shudders slightly and for an instant. 'My daddy ain't never had no business partners. Don't like 'em. Thinks they run things down, an' he wouldn't be able to control 'em with his condition'.

'Well, I ain't really a business partner, Miss Mollard, I'm...' he contemplates what he's going to say. 'I'm a friend of a friend, Miss Mollard.'

'Is that so? Well, daddy ain't never mentioned havin' no friends neither. Don't want nobody ter start pryin' an' tryin' ter impose theyselves upon him'. Her drawl's almost overriding. I thought they were more sophisticated up north, Walton thinks to himself. But he's capable of following, and so the conversation continues on.

'A very old friend, Miss Mollard, 'fore he started workin' up here in West Elizabeth, far as I can tell'.

'Well, I's been in Blackwater since I don't know when, and I's well in ter me life now. Must be a real old friend.' She hesitates. 'See, pa's not real friendly with most folks. After his accident, didn't trust no nobody. I run that there Saloon 'cause pa won't let anyone run it but me. Don't want nobody messin' wit' his affairs and the like. Took me a good week to convince 'im ter take that deal wit' Mr Pratt'

'Mr Pratt?' Walton's starting to wonder whether there'll be more to worry about on this little escapade than just Mr. Mollard.

'Grover Pratt. Some darkie who runs that there Blackwater Hotel. Pa's stayin' on the third floor, an' we got this here deal wit' Mr Pratt to keep the whiskey comin' an' he'll let Pa stay there in return. That's where we's goin' now, the Hotel'.

The two arrive on the Hotel's doorstep. Heidi opens the door, and walks with Walton into the lobby. It's there that she leaves him. 'Sir, I gotta get back to the Saloon'n prepare some drinks. Them churchies get theyselves mighty thirsty after a day's prayin'. Pa's up there on the third floor'. She turns and walks back down the street towards the Saloon, the hotel door swinging shut behind her. The aforementioned Mr Pratt's leaned over the counter, going over a book (a literate darkie, Walton thinks, that'll be the day) and tapping his finger on the table. Without looking up, he sees Walton. 'What's yer business here, suh?' he asks, with rude manners but an otherwise polite tone. 'Goin' up to see Mr. Mollard' Walton tells him. 'Third floor, suh' Pratt says, still not looking up.

'Thanks' Walton says, going up the stairs. He eyes Pratt, who continues looking down at the book, as he goes up. Onto the second floor, and then onto the third floor. The Blackwater Hotel ain't exactly the biggest structure in all the US of A at the moment, but she's the best that Blackwater's got for the time being. Walton, now on the third floor, he finds himself standing in front of the door. You wanna go through with this Walton?, he thinks to himself, not quite sure. He lifts his hand to knock, but hesitates. Slowly, he brings his hand down. Once, twice and thrice, he knocks on the door. 'Yessum?' a voice says from inside.

There's a moment of clarity. Walton can see everything. He can see each individual stitch of the carpet. He can see the fleas and the bugs crawling over it. He can see the grime on the windows. He can see a bird chirping on the branch of a tree. He can hear the bird. He can hear the hum of the electric lamp two floors down on the table, the first of its kind here in the Blackwater Hotel. He can hear the crackling of the candles mounted on the wall. He can feel the discomfort of his trousers on his groin, and that of his boots on his calves. A blister's emerging in the heel. 'Yes?' he hears from inside the room. Am I going through with this?

'Abner Mollard?' Walton asks. Yes, I am going through with this.


	9. Chapter 9 - Abner Mollard

Abner Mollard was a friend to the fledgeling city of Blackwater, and was a man notable for his outspoken support of modernisation. Like many other God-fearing Blackwater citizens, Mollard wasn't fond of the Mexicans - a hatred made even more profound at the death of half of Blackwater's young lads - and hoped that the fellers in New Austin would some day see the light, let the railroad through and, soon, become just as modern and developed as Blackwater now was. Abner was one of those kind folks who, despite his past out there, disapproved of the fellers from New Austin. He found the vast majority of them to be violent savages, and was apprehensive about letting them into his saloon at the best of times.

Then again, he was apprehensive of letting anyone in his saloon at the best of times. Abner Mollard was not a man to form alliances or friendships, for he had one too many broken in his past, and had decided to give up on them altogether. After this revelation, he decided to move up to Blackwater, where he once knew a sweetheard with whom he'd had a night of gratification. Their rendezvous had birthed him a young girl - a girl named Heidi - who's mother had died when she was four. Mollard abandoned a life in the Old West, and became one of the Blackwater folk, a God-fearing and charitable, if somewhat reclusive man.

But he wasn't the traditional God-fearing West Elizabethian as his kindred in Blackwater prided themselves on being. His past was a checkered one, and he was, before coming to Blackwater and starting his new life, not a very nice person. Mollard had been born in 1846 - though he doesn't know exactly when - to a poor cotton farmer and his wife, a tailor. There was no particular reason why he became a criminal. There was no sympathetic story about how his family lost everything; a group of outlaws never rode up, shot his parents and took him under their wing; he didn't lose 'em to consumption and get forced to find his own way.

Instead, one morning after he rode into town, he saw some outlaws ride out of the bank. He recalls these fellers as being the Bradley Gang - Leon Bradley, his younger brother Blanchard, Jim Finch and Waylon Swift. They rode into the bank at the fledgeling Armadillo, a poor town in an uncharted land. They went in, held 'em up for $721 in gold and rode outta there, not an alarm raised nor lady hurt. Thinking "hey, I can do that" was all it took, and Mollard, in 1862, rode off into the night. 'Course, it was many years 'till Mollard found out that the Bradley Gang were captured, shot up, and the remainder hung just a week later at what was then called the Foggy Creek, later a part of Lake Don Julio.

But it didn't matter. For almost twenty years, Mollard was a thievin', murderin', rapin' psycho who roamed the countryside with a gang of equally psychotic backstabbers, terrorising the good people of Cholla Springs and of Morcombe County up north. It was easy. Wasn't 'till some lawmen got to him in the winter at the start of that twentieth year that he saw how ridiculously lucky he'd been - them lawmen'd been lookin' out for the Wincott Gang (what they were called back then) for a good four or five years and had come up short a fair few times in catchin' 'em. That day was the day for Mollard.

For a few years, he lived sorta-straight - he was an attack dog for some lawmen down in Armadillo for a couple of years, and was a bounty hunter for the rest of the time. Them lawmen in Armadillo were low on guns, so they decided to straighten some of the Wincott boys out. Lyle Wincott, the man considered the head of the gang by most, blew off the heads of two deputies and tried to run off, but he were caught and hanged shortly afterwards. The other two, who's names escape Mollard, made their way up through Thieves' Landing, hoping not to run into any trouble among lawless men. Some lawman in Armadillo thought it a nice idea to stick a $2000 bounty on that feller's head, though, and God bless 'im - them boys up at Thieves' Landing handed the bastard in and got a good chunk of cash out of it.

It were around 1883, maybe 1884, that Mollard came to Blackwater for the first time. Met a lass named Lenore, spent a while, but left a bit afterward. Things went sour a little later on, and he learned then not to trust nobody, 'cause no good'd come of it. He came up to West Elizabeth and joined the military for a bit, between '87 and '89. It was in 1889 that a group of Injuns attacked their camp. They'd been perched up at Tall Trees, near Nekoti Rock, he with about fifty other men. Them Injuns came down like lightning and, in the space of three minutes, had killed or wounded pretty much every single feller there. Forty-two dead, seven injured, one missing. Stories say that the last feller got taken up and eaten' by 'em, or trained as some pet. Probably got lost in the snow or taken by a bear.

It was during this short battle that Mollard near-completely lost the use of his legs. An Injun ran right up to him, sliced the hamstring on his left leg complete through with a knife and then lodged it into Mollard's right knee. On the ground in agony, Mollard still managed to take the Injun down as he ran off before passing out. When he woke up, he was in a tent erected down at the Manzanita Post with seven other guys. Took him a good two months to be able to even walk again. Them Injuns got what were comin' to 'em, though - the Manzanita boys went up the mountain, cut down about a hundred of the bastards in their huts - but the damage was done.

In '91, he could move - sorta - and came up to Blackwater to find the daughter he never knew he had. He did have some cash tucked away, however and, in '93, took the Blackwater Saloon off Ollie Hinkley's hands. They fixed the place up and made a stack of money off it. Mollard managed to make a deal with Grover Platt - the darkie who ran the Blackwater Hotel - which dictated that he'd be allowed to stay there in exchange for ten cases of the finest booze the Blackwater Saloon has to offer a week. And he's been there ever since. Eleven years he's spent, skulking around up in here, coming down every now and then to go to Church or buy something at the general store, (Pratt usually handles the groceries for him) or maybe just for a drink.

There's a knock at the door. 'Yessum?' Mollard asks, a little curious. He wasn't exactly the most popular feller around, so people seldom came up to visit, whether or business or for a chat. So, naturally, curiosity came into the equation at some point. But nothing happens. No declaration of name or title, nothing. Mollard hesitates. 'Yes?' he asks again. There's nothing further. Mollard pulls himself up from the table on which he writes with relative ease. As usual, a bolt of pain shoots up one of his legs, and the other just flops kind of uselessly at his side. He puts his hand on the desk beside him to support himself, while his other hand searches for a cane, or a crutch, or anything.

He soon finds his ivory cane and, clutching it in his hand, starts making for the door, to see whoever this feller may be. 'Abner Mollard?' he hears from outside as he's halfway to the door. 'Be there in a minute, son,' Mollard says to the young-voiced man. Across the room he patters, until he's finally reached the door. With his left hand, he turns the handle, and then turns back and heads towards his desk again. The door swings itself open behind him, and he hears footsteps. The visitor walks into the room, his boots crunching on the dust of an unused section of carpet, just inside the door.

Mollard reaches the chair, drops his cane and throws himself back into it. 'Now, let's get a good look at ya' he says, and looks into the man's face. This man, he's seen this man before, somewhere. He doesn't know quite yet. 'Who're...' he says to himself. He hasn't seen someone quite like this feller in many years, not since... Richard Last. Mollard looks at the man. Behind the scars that cover most of the left side of his face is that of Richard Last. His nose is crooked in the same places, he has the same jet-black hair. Now that Mollard thinks about the man, this feller who's just walked in looks damn-near exactly the same as Richard Last.

Mollard's heart sinks. 'You Richard Last's boy?' Mollard asks the man, his menacing figure taking up most of the door frame. He swings the door shut behind him, and it closes with a metallic "chink". The man looks at Mollard. Mollard stares back at him. His brow furrows. 'I asked you a question, boy,' Mollard says, sweat on his forehead. The man looks back at him. 'Yes sir, I am' the man says. Mollard tries to say something. He tries to say 'Get yourself the hell outta my room' or 'You better be thinkin', otherwise you gonna do somethin' you're gonna regret', but nothing comes out. Mollard can't breathe. He feels like he's chokeing.

'Walton Last' the man, Walton, says. 'Why-' Mollard tries to speak, but he chokes on his word. He tries again. 'Why're you here?' he says. Just in case he didn't make it clear, he follows with 'What're you doin' here?'. Walton stares at him, a vague look in his eye. 'You killed my father' Walton says. Mollard leans back in his chair and opens his coat, shoving his hand inside, searching for a cigar. Walton's hand darts for his LeMat, which soon finds itself pointed right at Mollard's face. Mollard takes out the cigar, not particularly concerned, and lights it with a match on the desk.

'I killed your father' Mollard says finally, after taking a few puffs.

'Why?' Walton says, a hint of anger in his voice.

'Put that thing away and I'll tell you,' Mollard says, motioning towards the gun. 'otherwise you can shoot me, or you can get up outta here'.

Walton's hand doesn't move, and neither does his gun. It remains trained on Mollard, who eyes it. Knowing he's probably not going to make it out of here and accepting that his time has come, he decides to play it cool. 'That your pa's gun, Walton?' Mollard says, again gesturing towards the gun.

When Walton shows no signs of answering the question or putting away his gun, Mollard makes a decision. 'I was there when your father died. I shot him'.

'And my mother?' Walton says, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

'I was there when your mother died, though I didn't shoot her' Mollard says.

'But you was there when she died. And you ride with the fellers who killed her' Walton says, his voice laced with subtle fury now.

'I don't ride with them boys no more' Mollard says. He looks at Walton and thinks "you have no idea". He debates with himself for a moment. Walton doesn't respond to the question. 'Do you wanna know WHY your father died, Walton?' Mollard asks him.

Walton looks at him, furious, and says 'Go on'

'Walton, your father was a liar. Your father was a cheat. Your father was a murderer. Richard Last was a monster who deserved to die-' Mollard is cut off by the cocking of Walton's LeMat. It cracks through the room, which falls into a state of deathly silence. 'You're lyin''

'I ain't lyin', Walton. Your father was a criminal. He was-' Mollard is again cut off. Walton stands, and he immediately goes silent. 'You're a murderer. You killed my father. Your friends are murderers. You're the ones who deserve to die'. Walton walks to the other side of the room. 'Stand up' he says.

'What?' Mollard asks, shocked. 'Stand up' Walton repeats. 'Pull out your gun and stand up'. Mollard reaches for his cane and, reluctantly and with some effort, pulls himself out of his chair. His hand falls to the desk, and he starts rummaging around for his old Colt. He eventually finds it, and holds it in his hand. 'Cock it' Walton says, and Mollard complies.

'Whatchoo doin'?' Mollard asks him, both suspicious and terrified. 'One' Walton says, shifting his LeMat in his hand. Oh shit. Oh shit. Mollard realizes what's happening. He hasn't duelled in years, not since '84. He hasn't even fired a gun for ten years. 'Two' Walton says, the sound ringing in Mollard's ears. The Colt rests uncomfortably in Mollard's grip. Will the gun even fire? It hasn't been used in damn near twelve years, the bullets might not work, or it might misfire or jam. 'Walton-' Mollard says, but too late. 'Three' Walton says, and both of the men throw up their arms. Walton fires first, and Mollard stops dead. His hand darts to his neck, and he feels wet there, followed immediately by pain. He can't breathe. He tries to talk, but no words come out.

He coughs and gurgules, blood running out of his mouth and drowning his hand, his clothes and the carpeting below him. His vision slowly goes away, becoming clouded by black. The pain dulls, and he very nearly can't see a thing. This all happens in the space of about two seconds. The cane falls out of his left hand and to the floor. He stumbles, and soon finds himself leaning on his arm, and the chair. He looks at Walton, to find tha the's already deposited the LeMat in its holster and turned away. Walton starts walking to the door. Mollard raises his pistol and tries to tell the man to stop, but nothing but a raspy gurgling noise comes out. He fires. He misses the man, however, and hits a gas lamp on the wall.

Walton spins around at this, and his hand goes into his coat. When it comes out, it wields a sawed-off shotgun, which fires into Mollard. Mollard feels the pellets pass clean through and near-shatter the window behind him. His chest and stomach are basically shredded by the pellets, and he stumbles backwards into the near-shattered window. Walton watches. Mollard's eyesight fades completely away. He feels the cold of the glass on his back, and topples backwards through. He feels a sudden rush of air that comes standard with falling out a third storey window, and smacks into the ground twenty-five feet below. Dead.

Walton scratches the back of his neck as he looks out after him. He hears a blood-curdling scream, and watches as a young woman in her late teens runs up the street towards the body of the lifeless cripple that lay before her. She pays no mind to the source of the falling corpse, caring not if it's a gift from heaven or a drunk that fell off the roof. The snow around Mollard's corpse quickly turns red, stained with his blood. Walton watches as the woman falls down next to him and screams something along the lines of 'Mr Mollard? Mr Mollard? Help! Somebody!', before turning back and walking to the door with heavy steps.


	10. First Interlude - Four Men in a Saloon

It's early afternoon, nearing two o'clock. The air in the Blackwater Saloon has wound down a bit - the men coming for a quick post-church drink have all left, and the evening crowd have yet to roll in. There's an elderly lady in wool sitting next to the piano in the corner. The pianist shares a quiet chat with the gunsmith over a glass of scotch. The bartender's head lull's lazily down, the man himself on the verge of sleep and waiting for the next guy to take over at three. One of the bartender's pals sits at the end of the counter, pelting peanuts at him every time he looks like nodding off. And, amongst these colourful demonstrations of not a whole lot, there sit Lionel Shackleford, Lester Habersham and Earl West, all listening attentively as Riley Fortisque tells his story.

"... An' I'll tell y'all somethin'," Riley says, downing a shot of whiskey. "After news o' what Abner Mollard did got out, them Blackwater folk ain't never thought as highly o' him, I can tell y'all that".

"What happened to that Heidi girl?" Lionel asks, listening attentively to the story as anyone could. "She leave town?"

"Ain't so much as leave as got kicked out" Riley says. "Them folks were real harsh back then. They di'n't want Mollard buried up in their fancy schmancy Blackwater graveyard, no sir. So Heidi Mollard and a few other folks got on a wagon with her daddy's corpse, never came back"

Before Lionel can ask, Riley says "Ain't nobody seen 'em again 'round these parts. Buried her daddy in some unmarked grave up in Coot's Chapel or somethin', most folks think Heidi became a comfort girl in Armadillo, or went up north someplace".

Earl leans forwards. "Why ain't I never heard 'bout any o' this before" he says loudly, in his thickly accented Southern voice. "People'd talk 'bout somethin' like that, wouldn't they?"

Riley doesn't answer. He simply looks at Earl. "You know what I think, ol' man?" Earl says. "I think you been spoutin' horseshit for the past hour, an' the reason this Mollard feller's in some unmarked grave down south somewhere's because he ain't never existed to get hisself buried". Earl seems quite proud of this accomplishment, debunking the words of an old man telling a story. He leans back in his chair and basks in the glow of his perceived victory. Lester glares at Earl. He does this quite often - despite his quiet exterior, pretty much everyone knows that he doesn't have the highest opinion of Earl West. Except, of course, for the ever-ignorant and ever-arrogant Earl West.

Lionel isn't exceptionally pleased with the boisterous Southerner either. "Keep on goin', Riley" Lionel tells the old man, who's at this point receding into his chair, not entirely sure whether or not to continue.

"You know what?" Earl says. "I got better things to do". He lifts his gargantuan arse out of the chair and starts plodding his way to the Saloon doors. "You keep tellin' your ghost stories, Riley. I'll be back here tomorrow, boys!" He calls, before barging his way through the door. Lester, Lionel and Riley watch through a nearby window as Earl makes his way down the street with an awkward stride, already panting at the corner.

"Want drinks?" Lester asks the other two. "I'll have a scotch" Lionel says to him. "A shot o' whiskey" Riley says to him. Lester stands and starts making his way to the bar. Lionel and Riley watch in silence as the bartender's helper flings a peanut at him. The bartender, thrown out of his early-afternoon snooze, turns to Lester who, very briefly, takes an order for drinks. The bartender fills a glass with scotch and one with gin, then a shot glass full of whiskey, and hands them to Lester on a plate. Lester nods in thanks, and returns to the table, distributing the drinks before retreating into his gin.

"Continue, please" Lionel says to Riley, who leans forward. "Where was I?" Riley asks.


End file.
